


Gun Song

by KellerProcess



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Blood, Discussion of Rape, Drug Use, Gun Kink, Homophobic Language, I promise this isn't as lulzy as it sounds, Joe being a sleazy rape apologist, M/M, Object Sexuality, Other, Potentially anyway, Sexist Language, Violence, basically Immortan Joe says stuff, objectum sexuality, obviously, so it's a pretty good bet that a lot of it will be offensive, the Bullet Farmer has sex with his guns basically, this is actually a serious fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:56:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4109860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KellerProcess/pseuds/KellerProcess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Joe cannot feel the press of steel against him, the terror and wonder of centuries of engineering. This union that transforms me from Kalashnikov into the Bullet Farmer—husband to steel and powder and all of the things they can bring."</p><p>The Bullet Farmer, the engineer of death, loves his guns. And they love him in return. A strange fic about desire, atypical sex, and two very different monsters birthed from the dust of the Wasteland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I’ve never understood the obsession with people. Then again, before the fall of civilization, I never really understood the obsession with meat—much to my family’s embarrassment. Now, of course, I eat it out of necessity—lizards, crows, the livestock we husband on the Farm I now call home. I’ll never have much of a taste for it, not like I do for bramble tea and for the few vegetables we can grow with water from the Citadel. But at least I can tolerate it.

I’m glad I don’t have to say the same for people.

Joe, of course, has never understood this. During the oil wars, he was incapable of shutting up about women. Their breasts. Their thighs. Their hips. Their pussies. Pussy. Pussy. Pussy. Pussy. Pussy. Every other word out of his mouth and the mouths of his soldiers was pussy or cunt or tits. Finally, after one day too many of marching or one too many hours with insufficient water, I told him to shove it.

“If you want breasts and thighs so much, you should open a fuku-damned deli,” I snapped. 

Of course, Joe and the rest of the men took this to mean I wanted cuts of them instead. Our situation was too dire for them to truly shun me, and even the worst of them would never have abandoned a marksman like me to the hungry sands. Only now every other word they said in my presence was cock, balls, nuts, or some other hideous synonym. It would have been insulting if I had actually wanted any of the meat they offered. As it was, I didn’t.

Joe was sympathetic to what he assumed to be my situation. As sympathetic as a man like him can be, given what he later turned himself into. With no pussy to be had, he needed release anyway, and because he was a friend, I let him—when the rest of the men were asleep or at least pretending to be, of course. In any position he wanted. He always offered to reciprocate, but when my orgasms were at best mechanical, he grew concerned. As concerned, anyway, as a man like him could be.

“Fuck’s sake, Kalashnikov. When I offer you a goddamn reach around, the least you can do is show some fucking enthusiasm,” he hissed after one such disappointing result.  
“Fuk-ushima, Moore,” I snapped right back, “what do you want me to say? Sorry your legendary dick ain’t enough to make me come on command?”

That got me a slap to my arse and a few more thrusts, as if my CO was trying to prove a point. Which he failed to do. But like a good subordinate, I let him finish the job and clean himself off before I pulled up my pants. 

We were silent for a while. The kind of silence that happens after this sort of thing, I suppose. 

“Hey,” Joe said after a while. When I didn’t answer, he grabbed my shoulders and rolled me around to look at him. “Hey,” he said again. His large hand cupped my cheek with something like tenderness as he smoothed a thumb over my lips. “I’m not…” he was quick to remind me, with a gesture at my sinewy body, which days of relentless travel and warfare had made has hard as steel, and which was definitely devoid of his precious tits and pussy. “So…” He shrugged.

Seeing him at a loss for words was kind of amusing, I suppose. “It’s not you,” I reassured him, following it up with a kiss to his palm. Joe’s hands were thick and calloused and always so damn hot, like a barrel after a good straffing. I found I could tolerate them, even enjoy them with a little imagination.

He waited for me to continue, thumb rubbing over my lip. He probably wondered why I’d never take it into my mouth. Why I never used my mouth on anything that could be wet or soft.

I sighed. Hell. If anyone would understand, my best friend and brother-in-arms would.

“You’re just—the problem is, you’re human” was the best explanation I could offer.

Joe raised an eyebrow, but his blue eyes didn’t narrow in anger or disgust. They simply looked curious. They remained that way while I explained.

“Gender and other preferences aside, most humans are attracted to other humans. Not so I. Think of the first time you looked at a girl with lust in your heart,” I continued when he frowned in confusion. “How old were you? Fourteen? Fifteen?”

Joe chuckled. “Younger. Much younger.”

I nodded. “When I was around that age, my father took me hunting.” A rare attempt at father-son bonding, that, and not a particularly successful one. But Joe needn’t know that. We never discussed our childhoods much. “He had a Marlin 336XLR. Vintage 2006. Silver as the moon and smooth to the touch.” My cock twitched where it lay spent between my thighs. I sat up and shifted my blanket onto my lap as Joe’s gaze flicked downward. I was getting ahead of myself. 

I remember that day as clearly now as I did when speaking to Joe on that lonely night in a wasteland cave. My father was a career soldier who was loath to let me anywhere near his modest armory, but on that day he had let me hold the Marlin as he mucked about in the back of the truck looking for something. My palms tingled at the contact, as if I were standing in the middle of a lightning field holding up a rod. The tingle became a current that flowed to my heart and to the rest of my viscera.

I gasped, breathless, as my father took it away for loading. That straight silver barrel drew my gaze, though, as he crouched low in the bushes to aim at an unknowing pea hen. Its straight, uncompromising lines spoke of steel and strength, of centuries in the forge of the hot earth. The wood grain on its butt contained the swirl of galaxies. And when he fired—the rapport of powder and fire, the spray of blood as the quarry fell to the soil.

I was staring, my young self realized, at the pinnacle of creation—and not simply of human endeavor. How could one call this beauty a mere invention—a mere thing? No, the creature I stared at had life, a soul, more personality than any of the meat bags those around me lusted after, fought for, and even bled for. I knew then what wanting meant. I knew then what it was to love.

But how to convey this to someone who could only feel far more impure thoughts about a far more impure substance—about what, to me, was merely flesh that had yet to figure out it was rotting? I struggled for words as Joe’s gaze became more and more confused.

“Guns get me off,” I tried at last.

“No shit.” He chuckled. “You’re a soldier.”

“I’m serious. The way you feel when you’re balls-deep in a woman? That’s how I feel every time I touch one. Fire one. Fight with one. And whenever I sleep wrapped around one—”  
Joe held up a hand. “Okay, okay. I get the idea.” He rubbed his chin, his gaze thoughtful. “Huh,” he said at last. “All right, then. So long as you’re not jizzing on anyone’s kit—you aren’t, right?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “You know me better than that, Joe.”

We fucked a few times after that night, but never with quite the same intensity. Perhaps because Joe no longer needed to worry about my lack of response. Or perhaps even then he was starting to become the Immortan. After all, soon after that we came across the first settlement where healthy women dwelled, and Joe would not leave before we had rounded them up. And not long after that, we had better things to worry about than his sexual release. The taking of the Citadel. The establishment of Gas Town. The organization of my Bullet Farm. In no time at all, Joe’s skin began to crumble and he became as obsessed with reproducing himself as I did with filling magazine upon magazine with ammunition.

A bullet and a baby…really, I suppose there is less difference between them than I’d like to imagine. Even so, the Joe I knew has been lost to the years, swallowed up by the sands. Already a fierce man, he is now a machine that can only fuck, pillage, and hit, and scream, and make war.

I do not judge him, even though I can no longer call him friend or lover or anything but ally. Bullets in my gums, artillery on my back, guns in my bed, I am not so different.

I suppose the desert takes us all, in the end.


	2. Chapter 2

The day is winding to a close, as peaceful as any day can in the Wasteland. The bullet farmers trudge in from the refinery and the weapons fields wiping grime and ash from their goggles; the farmers in the more traditional sense of the word who tend to our livestock and crops leave the soil, mud in their eyes and up to their elbows.

Meat bags. Every one of us—the farmers, the bullet farmers, and even this Bullet Farmer. Soft skin over a squish of inwards, bones as soft and spongy as green twigs. Nothing at all compared to the press of steel, the shatter of gunfire.

My duties for the day are complete. The air about the refinery’s flames shimmers, as if it were a lake for the thirsty setting sun. The farmers who will tend to it at night are even now making their way to its open mouth to pour out more bullets, to remake and reclaim the poor wounded guns we have scavenged today. 

I am a monster, and yet I am fair when unprovoked, and none within my farm dare rouse me. Not when all know I can—and will—drop them with a bullet through the skull. Sometimes I even do so without cause, just so they will remember that they serve a monster.

I sit back from my worktable and tuck away my tools before stretching my arms above my head. My shoulders shift, and my spine pops with them, the pain a ripple that requires more stretching to prevent it from becoming a wave.

“Heh.” To remember waves as I do. To remember them roaring and crashing against the beaches as my brother chased me through the sizzling foam, laughing. A memory of water, before the oceans became acid and the fish liquefied.

I am growing old. Rusting like the barrel of a blunderbuss in a museum. After all, I remember museums too. Everything to its season, as they used to say.  
My spine pops again, signal for me to stand and stretch my legs out too.

Joe may very well enjoy a life of indolence and unwilling sex when he isn’t charging into battle, but I am not content with idleness. By day I clean, I design, I take my turns at till and forge, for really what is the bloody use of a leader if he will not sweat along with the meat bags he commands? My people fear me, but it is a healthy fear, tempered with respect; they do not worship me. Man-worship disgusts me, and I will have no part of it.

I will have only one form of worship.

Time, now, to visit my lovelies.

My farmhouse is small, no larger than any other, yet it houses an entire war machine. My needs, after all, are vanishingly few, my interests none save for the creatures who dwell with me. They fill my sleeping quarters on shelf and in drawer, cover my walls in racks, secret themselves in the nooks of my bed. 

I have made love with them all at one point or another, male and female, it matters not to me. But my two favorites are currently waiting for me upon my pillow. Of all the beauties who have laid a claim upon my soul, Sarah and Jane are truly my masters.

“My beloveds,” I whisper as I approach. For beloved they are. I rescued these Heckler & Koch MP5K-PDWs from the clutches of a minor warlord who kept them dirty and rusted, used their butts to strike his disobedient servants, and threw them aside when his carelessness jammed their actions.

I snarl now in the memory. He did not deserve them, and I took great pleasure in blowing his head off. Now, I try to be deserving of their trust and love each and every day.  
I begin by disrobing. First my headdress, its belts of ammunition jangling heavily as I spread them across the salvaged manikin head on my dresser. My boots next, lined up with military precision at the foot of my bed. My bandoliers, each one roped over my headboard, in case I have need of them in the night. Jacket, shirt, and trousers, each hung up neatly, for they will not be washed again until week’s end. More stretching, each limb, each joint, each sinew of this bag of flesh and bone and blood. I have long since stopped counting and stopped caring how many years have passed for me, but I am no longer young and must keep myself limber. Only when each knot has unwound, each joint has relaxed, do I slip off my underthings and kneel before them.

“Naked I come before you, for naked I am without you,” I murmur as I open the kit I keep at my bedside.

Sarah is first, as she ever is. That miserable bag of offal put a dent in her that I have never been able to fully vanish, and this is the only way I know to make up for my ineptitude. I  
remove her magazine, kiss it reverently, and place it to the side. My cock has been stiff between my thighs since I began to strip for them, but now the hardness pains me. But I know how to pace myself; I am no longer that young man panting in a cave, who came at the touch of a steely palm.

Her pins next, tucked with care into the cleaning kit so they will not roll off my bed. Her upper and lower separate with a touch, and I kiss each one, allowing my dry lips to trail along the edge of warm metal. My beloveds are always warm when I touch them; they and I, we have an understanding. The barrel next, and then the action, my lips teasing, caressing each.

“You are so beautiful,” I tell her. “Oh, so beautiful.”

Her bolt hole is practically shimmering, as I have not fired her since her cleaning last night. Nonetheless, she gets my worship each day. Degreasing cleaners are hard to come by in this Wasteland, so I have taken to using substitutes of my own invention. Making sure that my mouth is dry as possible first, I spray the oil onto my tongue and devour each of her chambers, cleaning her, tasting her, moaning her name as her steel slides along my tongue, as the bullets in my mouth clack harmlessly against it.

Only then do I take myself in hand and stroke my hardness.

When I ride into battle in my chariot, hefting my mates aloft in a blaze of artillery, I am truly invincible, and truly loved. I am then become a weapon, the sower of destruction, the conductor of the choir of death. I am then, for just one moment, not this machine of blood and fat and decay, but the stuff of time and earth, the stuff of the stars.  
I jerk my hand faster and faster as I lick along her shiny action, around her barrel, filling my mouth again and again with oil until it runs over my lips in ripples, in waves, until I am an engine capable of nothing but spilling it. Sarah sighs and warms beneath my care, and my blood swirls like gunsmoke. With one more pull, I have greased my hand. Only when I have kissed the last inch of her, however, do I rest my forehead against her and let her caress my hair, which I keep long enough for the wires of her fingers to pull through. When I have cleaned her thoroughly, she eases me onto the bed and positions me on my back.

Joe, I think as the grease runs to the back of my throat. I swallow its salt and remember, just for a moment, his own salt in my throat. No doubt he would mock me, letting Sarah dominate me in bed as she does. But let him laugh, the dying old meat sack. He knows only the endless conveyor belt of blood and muscle and birthing that ends in the tomb. Only barren fields. He cannot feel the press of steel against him, the terror and wonder of centuries of engineering. This union that transforms me from Kalashnikov into the Bullet Farmer—husband to steel and powder and all of the things it can bring.

“What a wonder is a gun,” I murmur the long-forgotten lay. “What a beautiful invention…” 

She tells me I am loved, that I am all that she needs. 

Her kisses along my neck harden me again. And my second orgasm knocks me into a warm and contented sleep in her arms, a switch tripped, a cartridge discharged.  
I wake, hours later, dry of mouth and sticky with oil and my own residue. The moon gleams high through the skylight, illuminating her outline—reassembled beside me, sleeping now. With a sleepy moan, I kiss her magazine, but gently, gently, lest I wake her.

Jane is an understanding creature. Surely she will forgive an old man for resting before attending to her.

The body is weak but the metal is willing. As they say.

I rise, stretch again, rinse the salt flat of my mouth and clean the lubricant from my thighs. The room tilts in bliss, and my mistress steadies me.

“Sorry,” I murmur into her warmth. “Didn’t mean to…sorry…to wake you.”

Her chuckle is a curl of smoke against my ear. Take it easy, silly man, or you’ll never make it through Jane’s turn.

“Hmmh,” I agree. “Yeah.”

A few shakes of my head leads me to the kitchenette. To the basin of water that purges the rest of the salt from me, straightens my vision at last. I am hot and trembling and need to soak my hair in it until I cool. I am still human, after all; I can only take so much heat into my body. When my blood stops simmering in my head, I amble back to my bedroom to give Jane her turn.

I am, after all, the most faithful of husbands. When I spray a third time, I feel her possession all the way to my toes. When I reach for her again, she is reassembled, as she and her fellow weapon ever are when they are done with me. Heavy as lead now, I coil my limbs about them and tug the heavy blanket over us, the bullets in each magazine clacking as we settle in, warm and heavy and one.

Such a wonder is a gun.

Such a beautiful invention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like the idea of Joe and the Bullet Farmer having been close friends as well as allies whose friendship cooled over the years as they both became more monstrous and Joe became obsessed with raping and/or abusing everyone he touched. And I just really, really like the Bullet Farmer. How can you NOT love a guy who shoves bullets in his gums and drives a tiny tank?
> 
> In chapter 2, the Bullet Farmer is singing a few mangled and misremembered lines from "Gun Song" from the Sondheim musical "Assassins." I leave the interpretation of the rest up to you.
> 
> I should also note that I have read through Objectum Sexuality Internationale's website. I fully understand that this form of love is not necessarily sexual and does not have to be. It is, however, sexual for Kalashnikov--who is, ultimately, fairly atypical in a lot of other ways too.


	3. Chapter 3

The world is all soft smoke and steel-black, until suddenly it’s white with a keyhole of blue at the center. It resolves into a death mask of a face framed with limp, yellowing hair. For a moment, the blue eyes narrow. They’re older now, more wrinkled behind the redness that underscores them and the grease that highlights them, but they’re still the same—clear and cunning and resolute. 

“Fuk-u- _shima_ , Moore!” I groan as I sit up. “Don’t sneak up on a man that sleeps in an arsenal. You’re lucky I didn’t blow your fuku-damned head off.”

‘I thought you didn’t fire the ones you fuck,” Joe says with a snicker.

“Fucking, firing, there’s no difference to me,” I remind him.

Joe chuckles as he sweeps my blanket aside and eases his bulk down onto the foot of the bed. His mouth looks better today than it did the last time we spoke. Not as angry, and some of the sores are actually scabbing over. I guess the medicine his last war party found is actually making a difference. Personal visits like these are always mask off. We’ve seen each other piss and we’ve tended to wounds on just about every part of each other’s body; anything else just seems silly. 

Just as silly as it is to care about seeing each other naked when we used to fuck. The bullets rattle as I shift the blanket aside and ease into a bone-snapping stretch before scratching my nails through my scalp. Nights in my masters’ embrace always leave my mouth Wasteland-dry. 

“Water?” I ask as I pad past Joe into the kitchen.

“Funny you should ask,” he calls after me. Outside his respirator, his voice is softer, higher, almost civilized. The thought makes me chuckle as I dip my hands in the basin. Such a meaningless word now. The dryness abates after a few mouthfuls, and I return to find him at the other side of my bed, staring at my lovelies.

“I wonder,” he says, hand reaching out to Jane’s barrel, “would you really kill me if I touched them?”

In a second, I’ve got the Sig Sauer I keep in over the lintel trained on him.

“Keep moving and let’s find out, shall we?”

Joe’s eyes widen just a fraction of an inch before he chuckles and raises his hands in mock surrender. I only lower my Sig fully when he’s backed off my bed.

“Not everything is yours for the taking,” I tell him as I cross the room to my masters’ sides. Neither seem too upset, but I vow to take special care of them tonight, regardless. “Not even women,” I add, sharpening the point. 

For threatening my lovelies, even in jest, he deserves to be infuriated. Cut well past the quick.

But Joe laughs my remark away as he tosses me the trousers from my closet. “Funny you should mention that,” he says as I set the pistol aside to dress. “I’m here on pleasure today, not business.” 

“Not interested.”

“I’m getting married,” he says, ignoring the quip. “She’s beautiful, Kalashnikov. Blonde, slim, skin like honey. Twenty-six or so, but no matter. She’s splendid in every way. Simply splendid.” He claps his hands together. “She’s to have the best celebration before our wedding night. Nothing but the finest for my Angharad.”

His eyes are watery, and he smiles so hard I can see his bleeding gums.

It’s the grin of a man attempting to forget that he is a body bag.

It disgusts me.

“You misunderstood,” I inform him. “Do I need to repeat myself?”

Joe’s slab of a chest heaves with a sigh. “So you’re going to be difficult.” He leaves the “again” unspoken. “Is the Bullet Farm in open rebellion, then?”

“I’ll come.”

“But you won’t enjoy a minute of it. As always.”

“I don’t see the point. You know that.”

He nods. “The same reasons? You know,” he presses on before I decide whether or not I want to answer, “just because I gave you some of the castoffs and you’d rather put them behind a plough or in a forge while you fuck your entire armory doesn’t mean you can lecture me like some History M—”

“Fuk-ushima!” I’m tempted to reach for my pistol again.

“Well? Aren’t you?” Joe asks, his voice tightening. “The next thing you’re going to say is wordburger: human rights. Wordburger: slavery. Wordburger: some other nonsense. Isn’t it?”

“Wordburger: mortality,” I spit.

Joe slams his hands down on his thighs. “Oh, bloody hell.”

“All this fuss over healthy babies. Over making more little bags of meat that will just turn rotten a bit later than the rest. Over _pussy_. What’s the point, Moore? Your War Boys can believe you’re immortal all they want, but that doesn’t change a fuku-damned thing. No matter how many useless, mad, or idiotic sons you get those girls to spill out for you.”

“And I suppose rolling around in the sack with loaded assault rifles is better?”

“It’s honest.” And far more beautiful than anything he could understand. “I’ve embraced my mortality, Moore. That’s why I do this. That’s why I do anything.”

That’s what my masters tell me when I climax beneath them. Blood and meat though I am, I am in that sense, part of a beautiful machine.

“You’re goddamned insane.” Joe spits a globule of blood onto my floor. “Delusional.”

“At least my lovers don’t scream when I hold them down.”

I don’t expect that to set him off—after all, when has he cared about such trifles?—but Joe is moving. Fast for his age, fast for his weight. He’s on me before I can grab my Sig. My head cracks against the floor boards as he punches me in the mouth. A bullet pierces my lip with a pain like a firebrand; I spit out another as though it were a loosened tooth. He punches me again. Again. Something hot presses against my temple. The barrel of the Sig.

“How dare you?” he roars. “How dare you! I love them!”

“Do it.” The words gurgle from my mouth with more blood, another bullet. “Go ahead. Do it! Good luck finding another Farmer while you’re at it.”

Joe’s own mouth is dripping blood—mine or his, I can’t tell. He’s considering it. I’ve made him mad enough. The thought ripples through me. To die at the end of a gun, to feel the bullet break through me, stopping my blood-machinery, lodging itself in my skull forever.

Perhaps someday, if anything survives this poisoned planet, a fragment of me will be smelted into another weapon. We are, in part, made of copper and iron, after all.

Such a wonder is a gun…

Joe looks down at me with those wide blue eyes. As if he hadn’t just beaten my face into pulp. As if we had been rutting instead.

“It’s not worth it,” he says at last, tossing the Sig aside. “It’s only turning you on, you sick bastard.”

A touch of humor in his voice now, even though the anger hasn’t fully gone down. Joe eases off me and lumbers to his feet. 

“Three days from now,” he says, dusting his trousers off. “Bring something nice. Jewelry. A pretty necklace. Nothing made out of bullet casings. You can make that, right?”

I push up onto my elbows. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” I tell him before spitting out another bullet. 

“Good. And no filling her head with any of this.”

“I won’t say a word.” When have I?

“Good,” Joe repeats as he lifts his mask from my dresser and dons it again. “I’ll see myself out, then.” His voice is artificial again, sonorous and severe, the voice of the Immortan.

“Okay.”

“Mh.” 

When the door closes, I lie back down and let my eyes fall shut. As my tongue prods the empty spaces that should hold casings, I trail my thumb along my lip, remembering a slightly simpler time. The cut is deep and still bleeding. I’ll need to stitch it shut. Most likely, I’ll need to shoot a few people as well to keep speculation not only quiet but out of all   
minds.

“He’ll pay for touching you like that,” I reassure my poor abused Sig. “Just give me time to dream up how.”

Open rebellion…

Not possible, and not wanted. Far better I just punch him back. When he least expects it.

Maybe in front of his new wife. She’d probably appreciate it.

I manage to sew up half of my lip without vomiting, but the job tires me. I am, after all, nearing my end with each contraction of the meat in my chest. There is a forge in need of repairs today, a field in need of irrigation. I am to oversee both, to put my back into the latter.

It can keep. 

Instead, I climb back beneath my heavy blanket and curl myself about my lovelies.

“Time enough still for all these things,” I whisper. “Time enough still.”

As I kiss them, I leave a smear of blood behind on each upper, and I think I hear them sigh.


End file.
